


Another Time

by LeFezWearingHusky



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Human, Basically a little bit of everything, Eventual relationship, Language Barrier, M/M, PTSD Japan, Possibly smut in later chapters, Samurai!Japan, Semi-Historical, Some Fluff, Some Humor, Some angst, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-09-14 00:00:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9147991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeFezWearingHusky/pseuds/LeFezWearingHusky
Summary: Arthur Kirkland returns home after a stressful day of work, but before he can even make himself a cup of tea, he is disturbed by perhaps the oddest sound imaginable coming from his back garden.And then, before he knows it, he finds himself cohabiting with an utterly lost samurai who can't speak a word of English.[Human AU. Samurai!Japan x England](On hiatus until further notice, may possibly be discontinued. More info in end notes).





	1. There's no need to panic, Grandma; there's only a samurai in my back garden!

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm actually posting something on here for the first time in forever, and I think I might've finally found an idea that I'd like to see through to some sort of conclusion. It's another strange AU involving a convoluted plot and time travel, and is basically an expression of my desire to write a semi-historical fic about a classical samurai living the modern world. (In case you were wondering, I've been reading far too much Gintama lately).  
> I've tried to do research where I can but I will admit I'm not very good; most of the "research" I do basically involves skimming vaguely through Wikipedia, so I would greatly appreciate it if somebody more in the know could give me some pointers about historical/cultural accuracy!  
> Also, being the baka gaijin that I am, I use Google Translate for the Japanese translations, so they are likely less than accurate. Again, any advice on this front is much appreciated.  
> Well, you can pretty much turn to the tags for any other information; other than that, I think that's everything. So I hope you very much enjoy, and if you would like me to continue, be sure to leave a kudos and a comment!~  
> -Le Fez-Wearing Husky

Home was in sight. Well, thank god for that.

The grubby Victorian facade was stained with the grime of nineteenth-century smog. Haphazard, irregularly-shaped windows were squashed into the brickwork, which was just as irregular and continuous with the adjacent houses along the terrace. The porch was cobwebbed and filthy, and Arthur Kirkland had never been so glad to see it in his life.

The place was practically falling down, and he’d heard rats in the pipes once or twice. The ivy contributed less character than it did mutagenic ooze that looked as though it had been recklessly thrown at the wall. The landlord was undoubtedly a psychopath. And Arthur knew that it was the best he could possibly afford on his income.

After all, it was within walking distance of the nearest Tube and from there it was only three stops until one reached the River Thames. Blood had been shed over houses like these.

Arthur had to remind himself of this fact every time he laid eyes on the building he called home, as the alternative was to acknowledge that he was living in a pile of shite.

And the idea that you were living in a pile of shite is not something you want to acknowledge when you return home after working several hours overtime, especially not on top of a ruthless boss giving you grief about something that should’ve been dealt with six months ago. And so he didn’t.

Arthur trudged morosely past the crumbling garden wall - if you could even call it that - and, equally morosely, pressed the key into the stiff lock and turned. The door rattled on its hinge as it swung open and Arthur stamped the heels of his shoes against the wire doormat. A smile spread onto his face as he imagined his boss’s head in the place of the doormat, but it faded as soon as he realised just how pathetic he was being.

Arthur swiftly closed the door with his heel before loosening his tie and turning to the dim hallway. “I’m home,” he announced to the empty house.

He conversed with the house on a regular basis. He thought it a natural thing to do, seeing as he was living alone and had no colleagues he was intimate enough with to call friends. The house, unlike its sociopathic owner, was a good listener. Unfortunately, so was the old lady next door, whose hearing was disastrously good for her age and kept yelling at him to shut his trap so she could watch Antiques Roadshow in peace and quiet.

“I need a cup of tea,” Arthur grumbled as he navigated the narrow corridor, flicking on lights as he went, to the kitchen that opened just beyond the staircase.

A suspicious grey streak jolted out of view the very moment he entered. Arthur sighed and checked the fridge. Thankfully, the scones that he had baked the previous weekend were intact this time. It seemed the house’s rodent residents had yet to evolve the power to open fridge doors.

He took one of the scones and dropped it on the nearest plate, pausing to scoop up a wad of crumbs that had detached from the biscuit. He flicked on the kettle and leant against the counter, closing his eyes as the rumble of boiling water filled his head.

And then -

The darkness behind his eyelids flashed blood-red for an instant, causing Arthur to jolt. He stared around at the kitchen for possible sources of the unexplained phenomenon, but before he could identify any, a shrill, high-pitched, insistent noise similar to that of an aeroplane just prior to takeoff rung through the house. Arthur clutched at his ears, but the noise continued as though it had infiltrated his very consciousness. And then, just as abruptly as it had started, it stopped.

Arthur scratched at his blond locks as he watched the kettle, still dutifully boiling as though nothing had happened. Perhaps nothing had. Perhaps it had all been some odd hallucination that had been brought on by his fatigue -

A sudden quake rippled through the bricks of the house, vibrating across each and every surface, including Arthur’s skin. He gasped as it subsided. “Wh-what the…” He turned rapidly to the kitchen window. The origin of the tremor had been the back garden.

It was already too dark to see anything clearly, so Arthur figured that he would have to check on the garden himself. He dashed out of the kitchen and back into the hallway - pausing to collect a dusty torch from the cupboard beneath the stairs - then through a door opposite the staircase. A sliver of weed-caked concrete lay between the doorstep and the adjoining fence. 

From there, with heavy breaths, Arthur cautiously manoeuvred towards the patio ahead, gripping his torch tightly and fearing what he could possibly find beyond the corner.

He shook his head. What was the worst that could’ve happened? A mini-earthquake? Or perhaps some construction work underground. Either way, there was a practically non-existent probability of him turning the corner into the garden to find Godzilla’s gigantic foot sunk half a metre deep into the patio.

He shook his head again. Why had that image come into his mind all of a sudden? He had clearly been watching too many old movies.

Arthur crouched behind the corner and gripped his torch as though it were a loaded weapon. He listened. Nothing. He pinched his nose and brushed back his fringe in exasperation. Why was he so scared?

He had to force himself, but he managed to lean his head out beyond the corner to survey the sparse patio. Nothing except the shadows of a few dandelions was visible in the light streaming from the kitchen window. There were no telltale signs; no cracks in the ground, or sinkholes, or anything of the sort. He breathed. Tentatively, he cast his torch over the fringes of the darkness that lay beyond the illuminated patio. Nothing. He directed the light in a smooth arc, and then a wider arc, revealing the collapsed fence at the very back of the garden. Still nothing.

Arthur sighed at his own foolishness. It looked as if he had been hallucinating after all. He was about to retreat back inside the house for his long-awaited cup of tea, when a faint rustle reverberated from the shadows.

He stifled a yelp as he turned the torch towards the sound, already chiding himself for being scared of what was obviously a fox or cat - but before he could, he froze.

Framed in the wobbling circle of torchlight was a samurai. Fully armoured in lacquered studded leather, a plated iron kabuto atop his head, and a katana balanced firmly in his right hand. The light glinted off the metal, forming a galaxy of cold, bloodstained stars; and the katana, streaked with red, resembled a Sith lord’s lightsaber. Arthur swallowed as the man turned.

The samurai squinted in the sudden light, his dark eyes shining in what appeared to be shock. His pale features locked onto Arthur’s own for a moment. A breathless silence fell between them.

And then, in a single, blindingly swift motion, the samurai moved. Arthur found himself pinned back against the fence behind him with such force that the torch was jolted from his fingers. He gasped as he felt a steel chill against his neck, the katana subtly slicing the soft skin. He made an attempt to break free but the samurai was steadfast; he seemed disproportionately strong for his size.

Arthur’s mind whirled. He fought down the urge to scream, knowing that his head would already be off his shoulders before anyone could jump to his aid.

“I-I’m not going to hurt you,” he mumbled desperately. “I… I don’t even have anything that could be remotely described as a weapon -”

“Omae wa ittai dareda?” the samurai demanded in a heavy, forceful voice that had clearly experienced this sort of situation before.

Arthur grinned sheepishly. “I-I’m afraid I can’t speak Japanese.”

He could immediately tell from the tension in the other man’s expression that the samurai didn’t know a word of English.

Arthur almost sighed. As though this situation couldn’t get any more confusing, a language barrier had appeared. Just how was this samurai - if that was indeed what he was - supposed to explain how he had come to be in his back garden? And how was Arthur to explain his own situation?

This is unbelievable.

The samurai continued to stare up at him with those eyes of steel, but as Arthur managed to hold his gaze, the adrenalin glaze began to dissipate from his features, replaced by pure confusion. In the still night, a dog barked.

Abruptly, the shorter man slumped against Arthur, the katana clattering against the concrete as his arm dropped slack against his side. For a moment, Arthur was completely taken aback, unable to do anything except grab the bottom of the samurai’s cuirass to prevent him from falling. And then he noticed the blood pooling against his shirt, tracing a lake of red through the white fabric.

Arthur panicked, and thought deserted him as he swiftly carried the now-unconscious samurai into his home and onto the living room sofa, nudging the light on with his elbow as he did so.

What was previously hidden in the darkness of the garden was revealed all at once. The samurai had numerous cuts to his face, some of them still bleeding, but each of those seemed nothing compared to the the relentless scarlet flooding from his abdomen - so much blood, and flowing out so rapidly. Arthur saw that there was a rupture in the samurai’s cuirass that he hadn’t noticed before, a wide diagonal gash rent right through the leather plates. Arthur momentarily wondered just what sort of brutal weapon could have caused such a blow, before jolting himself back into reality.

He considered his options. The logical solution was, of course, to call an ambulance - but then, of course, there would be the questions. And if this man really had somehow warped here from the battlefields of an ancient war - which he indeed looked as though he had - then how would he react when confronted with a modern-day hospital? Arthur didn’t want to see any more blood than he had already.

So he had to have faith in what little first-aid experience he had. Without hesitation, he dashed back to the cupboard beneath the stairs and began rooting through the accumulations of junk left by both himself and the previous tenants of the household. His eyes caught on a dark green corner underneath an overstuffed binbag and he hefted up the box, brushing dust off it as he ran back to the living room.

Despite his shaking hands, Arthur managed to prise the lid open easily. He was greeted by an assortment of instruments, plasters and bandages that he only knew vaguely how to use. He then turned over his shoulder to the samurai.

He grimaced. He hadn’t the slightest idea how the armour fit together, and the few fastenings he could see looked quite difficult to manipulate. Nevertheless, he felt it was worth saving his conscience if he at least tried. So he wiped his bloodstained hands against his trousers and positioned himself directly above the samurai’s injury. His hands searched for fastenings on the cuirass, but only came away more bloodied than before, so he tried simply pushing the leather garment upwards, only for it to catch against the neck guard. The neck guard, thankfully, was less vexing to remove, as was the kabuto, which released a cascade of lustrous black hair the moment Arthur removed it. In that moment, he noticed that beneath the injuries, the samurai was a young man, seemingly in his early twenties - and definitely younger than Arthur had expected.

He shook himself and continued. He tried to push the other man’s arms back through his cuirass, but the shoulder guards got in the way, so he ended up having to remove those as well. When he finally managed to get the samurai’s cuirass up over his shoulders, he wanted to collapse in a panting heap, but instead turned back to see what came next: a blood-soaked shirt that looked as if it had once been dyed blue. He couldn’t see where it was fastened so he instead grabbed the lapels and pulled, hearing the fabric tear in the process but paying no heed.

The wound followed the line of the chasm in the cuirass exactly. Luckily, it didn’t seem to be very deep, although it was bleeding profusely. The man would undoubtedly die of blood loss unless Arthur stemmed the flow soon.

He grabbed a pack of alcohol wipes and began furiously mopping up the blood, but the wound was bleeding so rapidly that it made little difference. “Shit,” Arthur muttered, discarding the wipes and instead opting to pull off his own shirt, bloodsoaked as it already was. He bunched up the fabric and pressed it into the other man’s wound, managing to stem the flow for long enough to he could cut out a fresh bandage from the first-aid kit. He then tossed his shirt over his shoulder before sitting the other man up and winding the bandage across his belly - once, twice, three times for good measure. He then tied the bandage as tightly as he could before wrapping the whole thing with gauze several times over. He sat back, gasping, dreading the sight of blood through the bandage. To his utter relief, it never came.

“What’s all that heavy breathing for!?” a mildly muffled yell shot through the adjacent wall. “I just missed how much that Zoroastrian ritual brazier went for!”

Arthur turned his head towards the wall in irritation. “There’s no need to panic, Grandma,” he uttered, every syllable radiating sarcasm, “there’s only a samurai in my back garden.”

“There’s a what?” Arthur’s neighbour shrieked back. Arthur did not bother to repeat himself; he knew that she had most definitely heard the first time. After all, there wasn’t anything she didn’t hear.

Arthur sighed and stood up slowly. Now that the initial surge of adrenalin had petered out, he could look at his situation more clearly. He felt slightly embarrassed staring down at the samurai’s bare chest, so he fetched a towel from the bathroom, washing his hands thoroughly as he did so, before draping it over the smaller man’s slim frame. He then picked up his own bloodstained shirt from the floor and sighed.

“Now I really need a cup of tea,” he grumbled.

In the kitchen, he was surprised to find that the kettle, having long finished boiling, was still warm. Then again, he supposed, time tended to slow down in a life-or-death situation.

After pouring out the tea and leaving it to brew, he leant once again against the kitchen counter, staring out at the garden beyond the sink. It was then that he noticed his torch, still dutifully flickering away across the concrete. The samurai’s katana, red-streaked, caught in the light and shimmered.

Arthur decided he should probably take the sword inside, and so he went out to fetch both items from the garden. He switched off and pocketed the torch before tentatively picking up the katana, both hands firmly gripping the hilt. It was heavier than expected, but definitely lightweight in comparison to the traditional English broadswords he’d been fascinated by as a child.

It’d be best to sheath this before any more injuries can occur.

The sheath was where he hoped he’d find it; tucked into the samurai’s cloth belt. He gently drew the steel oblong out, careful not to nudge the other man from his comatose state, but he remained just as conscious as before.

Under the light, he noticed that the katana was elaborately engraved along the blade, and the gold handguard was fashioned in the shape of a chrysanthemum. It was a beautiful sword. Beautiful and deadly.

Arthur sheathed the blade quickly, concerned for a moment that it could possibly have been cursed. But then again, probably not; it didn’t seem to have the same aura as the other items in his occult collection of oddities.

He wasn’t sure what to do with the sword, so it ended up amongst the junk in the cupboard beneath the stairs. After he had locked the door on the cupboard for the third time that day, he reentered the kitchen to check on the tea. It had nicely brewed. He was just removing the teabag when he wondered if he should also make a cup for the man currently passed out on his sofa. After all, it was natural to offer a guest under one’s roof a cup of tea, wasn’t it?

Arthur frowned at the notion. Well, it seemed like a good idea, but there was no telling how long it would be before he woke up. Also, what kind of tea did samurai like? Black? White? Sweetened? With a scone? He munched on his own scone thoughtfully as he considered this, swirling the milk into the tea.

He eventually fell to sipping between bites, all the while staring out into the darkness beyond the patio.

Of course, there was the more pressing question of how exactly a samurai had managed to get into his back garden from whatever battle he had been engaged in beforehand. Arthur could only logically conclude that time travel formed the basis to this mystery. But… how? There wasn’t a blue police box in sight, and if magic was the answer… well. Arthur considered himself an expert of sorts as far as the occult was concerned, but there was nothing in his sizeable collection of spellbooks that so much as mentioned time travel.

He sipped his tea. Perhaps his favourite occult bookshop in Soho would hold the answers. He made a mental note to stop by there later. Come to think, why had he never thought of investigating time travel before?

Upon finishing his tea, Arthur glanced at the clock above the fridge. 8:25. It wasn’t all that late, but Arthur already felt exhausted enough to go to bed. Perhaps he could just watch some shitty television until boredom lulled him into the land of nod.

When he reached the living room, however, he was reminded of the fact that everything was still stained with blood. He fell instead into the antique rocking-chair that had once belonged to his grandfather; in fact, it was possibly the only thing Arthur had inherited from him that didn’t contain some sort of occult curse.

He switched on the telly and grimaced the moment he saw Simon Cowell’s face, so he immediately switched onto the channel directory.

He hadn’t even scrolled two pages down before he fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes for confused Americans:  
> -A torch is what you might call a "flashlight"  
> -Simon Cowell is the owner and main judge of "The X-Factor", the pinnacle of British trash television (to any X-Factor fans reading, no offense intended. please don't sue me.)
> 
> Japanese translations:  
> "Omae wa ittai dareda?" = "Who the hell are you?"  
> (According to Google Translate)


	2. Television is a faster route to delinquency than a Full English is to obesity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! It's been a while.~ My apologies - I really should have uploaded this earlier, and I would have done if I was more organised, but unfortunately I have a million and one things that are occupying my time and attention at the moment. Not all of them school-related, I will admit, but here's the second chapter. Better late than never, I suppose.  
> Chapter 3 is already halfway completed, so hopefully the delay between now and the next update will be shorter, but I know it'll just end in tears if I guarantee anything.  
> Anyway, I'll shut up for now, so I hope you enjoy the second chapter of this weird-arse fanfiction!  
> -Le Fez-Wearing Husky

It wasn’t so much a sound that awoke Arthur as a sensation; a habit of sorts, an internal rhythm, an idiosyncrasy that he couldn’t consciously place. He didn’t know why he had to wake up at that particular moment in time - he just knew that he had to. And so he did.

A chink of sunlight struck the ubiquitous dust of the room, forming glittering bars of gold. The ambiguous sound of television undulated through his ears.

Fell asleep with the telly on again, huh…

He heard sudden shuffling, somewhere off to the side. Arthur blinked, suddenly alert, as he realised the sound had not come from the television.

He was not alone.

Rocking forward on his chair, Arthur twisted his neck to get a full view of the sofa. He yelped as he noticed that a person was sat there, and promptly fell out of the unbalanced chair in shock.

He scrambled up rapidly to meet with profound brown eyes set in a pale, slender face. The eyes blinked once before turning towards the television, where they settled, enthralled.

Arthur fought down a sigh as the memories of the previous night returned to him. Yes; there had been a samurai, hadn’t there? Or something along those lines. His mind was still wavering between states of awareness. He followed the other man’s gaze to the television screen, where Piers Morgan was interviewing some B-list celebrity. Arthur shook his head.

It seemed even breakfast shows were running out of ideas nowadays.

It was all new to the samurai, however. He watched the exchange almost unblinkingly, his body craned forward towards the screen as though he were gazing into a pit filled with the contents of Newt Scamander’s briefcase. It was plain to see that he didn’t understand a single word of what had been said, but he seemed absolutely enthralled by the mere concept of it all.

Arthur scratched the back of his neck. Well, this shouldn’t really have been surprising. What time was this samurai from, anyway? He knew too little Japanese history to hazard a guess, but it had to have been a time before forty-inch plasma screens had been invented, at least.

He slowly got to his feet, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with the heel of his hand, all the while watching the man sat on his sofa. He was sat cross-legged, his hands clutching his knees. A towel hung down from his left shoulder, pooling loosely in his lap like a Roman toga. The scarred, tight muscle of his chest was visible beneath, though half-obscured by a clumsily wrapped bandage that - thankfully - did not appear to be leaking. Arthur saw the frayed edges of the shirt that he had torn apart last night and looked away guiltily. He supposed the least he could really do was provide the man with some new clothes.

“Well, you can continue watching the telly for a little while, I suppose. I’ll get you some spare clothes.”

At the samurai’s questioning glance, Arthur quirked a small smile. The other man smiled back, near as awkwardly.

Arthur breathed a sigh of relief as he left the room. That was, at the very least, an improvement on the murderous sword-brandishing from yesterday. It seemed that in spite of their communicative failings, the other man had gotten the message that Arthur didn’t mean him any harm.

A thousand thoughts filled his head as he made the trip upstairs to his bedroom, but they each quickly dissolved into the fatigued haze of his mind.

He picked his way across the room’s creaking floorboards. It was really better described as an attic than as a bedroom, and Arthur used it for both purposes. The area was as cluttered as it was possible to be, leaving Arthur to navigate the numerous islands of dusty books, narrow shelves and various antique items; a hand-painted brass globe from the year 1874, a chest stuffed with oddities and the cabinet that showcased the Kirkland family’s cursed heirlooms. He had obtained most of the things by pure chance; either by winning them in a raffle or happening upon them in a junkyard or skip. He never went looking for them, so he supposed he had a natural eye for beautiful yet obsolete things. He couldn’t decide if it was meant to be a blessing or a curse.

In comparison to the miscellaneous junk that the room was stuffed with, Arthur’s bed and wardrobe were very small - and both had also been colonised by books. Arthur had to shift a few volumes of the Encyclopaedia Arcana to the side in order to lift down two shirts - one for his new acquaintance and one for himself, as he was still wearing the now-ruined workshirt from yesterday.

He glanced at his watch. It was almost 8:30, and the mere thought of work was making him nauseous. No - best to call in sick today, he thought. So he pulled down two casual shirts as well as a pair of not-too-battered jeans and the belt to go with them.

When he returned, his guest was still - predictably - lost deep in the realm of television. Arthur silently sighed at the sight.

“You know, watching too much TV isn’t good for you. Trust me. I have a cousin in America who spent most of his childhood in front of a screen all day and… guess what? He became a bloody delinquent.” He stopped in front of the samurai, blocking the other’s view of the television. The dark eyes looked up at him - not annoyed as one would usually expect, but merely questioning.

“Here,” Arthur offered, holding out a folded shirt and jeans to the other man. “Some new clothes. They… they probably won’t fit you, but it’s something at least.” He laughed awkwardly.

The samurai accepted the clothes with a polite smile, but instead of putting them on, he stared at them contemplatively for a moment in the same way that he had stared at the television.

Arthur fidgeted. “Oh… um… I’ll give you some privacy,” he muttered as he backed out of the room - but as soon as he had done so, he impulsively leaned his head back out into the door frame.

The other man had shaken out the shirt and was staring at it distractedly, seemingly taking note of the unfamiliar style. He then began to take off what remained of his shirt and his battered armour before pulling his sleeves into the borrowed shirt. He then, seemingly habitually, pulled one side of the shirt across his torso, only to discover that there were no fastenings on the undersides. He turned back, frowning, to the string of buttons that ran down the centre of the shirt. From there, he was able to clock what he was supposed to do almost immediately.

He then proceeded to untie his belt, and at that point, Arthur quickly turned away with a sharp intake of breath, glancing at his feet in shame as he realised what he had just been doing. He put a hand to his forehead, wondering how he could have let himself do something so perverse -

All self-admonishment was then displaced from his mind, however, by a sudden passionate cry from within the room.

“Dokona no…?! Sore wa doko ni aru?!”

The samurai abruptly burst out of the room. Arthur turned to ask what was the matter, but before he could, the smaller man grabbed him one-handed by the collar and slammed him so hard against the wall that sparks momentarily swam before his eyes.

“Sesshya no ken! Sochi wa sore de nani o shimashita ka?!” The samurai’s face was right up against his own, his eyes narrowed threateningly. 

Aware of the precious few centimetres between the other’s fingertips and his own carotid artery, Arthur raised his hands in surrender and attempted to formulate an answer, but he could only emit strangled gasps.

The samurai shook him against the wall. “Sesshya ni kotae, yarou!”

Arthur gulped. “I - We’ve been through this,” he stuttered, “y-you know I don’t -”

Seemingly, that was the wrong answer. The other man pounced, pinning Arthur down to the floor easily in spite of their difference in size. The blond’s brain scrambled. What could his guest be mad about? Was it something he had done? Had he unknowingly violated some sort of social standard or rule of etiquette? Or perhaps this was the result of realising one was trapped in an alien world with no-one but a complete stranger for company?

The samurai straddled him, and, gripping Arthur’s collar, smacked the blond’s head against the floor, all the while yelling in what seemed to be desperation. Sparks flew once again across Arthur’s field of vision.

“What’s all that racket!?” demanded the old lady from the adjacent house. Arthur would have usually replied, but at that point an indignant senior citizen was the least of his worries.

He scrambled. He’s desperate… what’s he so damn desperate about…?

And then, it hit him.

He remembered something vaguely from a book on world history; a birthday present that had been read once and then left to collect dust. There was something about samurai… something about kendo, the “way of the sword”. Sesshya no ken… Sesshya no ken. Kendo. Ken. ...Sword.

...Of course. How could he not have realised it sooner? A samurai was a warrior, and their swords were basically their identity. Of course a warrior was going to be mad if you stole his sword; that was just asking for trouble.

He almost smiled. I’ve really gone and fucked it up, haven’t I?

Slowly, he reached up and grasped the samurai’s wrists. The other froze momentarily in surprise - it looked as though he hadn’t expected any resistance. Arthur fought to keep the calmness in his voice.

“I’ll get you your sword. But please, could you - ah - get off me first, maybe? I’m a little short of breath.” He smiled sheepishly.

Clearly, something managed to penetrate the language barrier, as the samurai gave him one last suspicious glance before standing up in one fluid motion.

Arthur got up not nearly as elegantly as the other had. As he did so, he noticed that the samurai seemed somewhat exhausted; sweat beaded on his forehead and he clutched vaguely at his stomach.

“Don’t move too much,” Arthur reminded him, concerned but unable to hide his fear. “You’re injured, remember?”

The samurai only continued to watch him suspiciously as Arthur lead the way down the hallway to the cupboard beneath the stairs. He quickly slid the lock back and picked up the katana, which lay just as it had yesterday, atop innumerable bundles of dust. Almost as soon as he had done so, the other tore it out of his grip and shoved the sheath into his cloth belt, before leaving straight for the living room.

Arthur gasped in something like relief. He had half expected to have been sliced up horizontally at that very same instant. 

He watched the samurai’s back as he left. He made quite a sight in Arthur’s shirt, which was several sizes too big and billowed across his thighs, still fully clad as they were in traditional armour.

When Arthur eventually tore his gaze away, his eyes landed on the kitchen door.

“Breakfast.” The word sounded like some sort of cure-all spell in that moment. In all the excitement, he had neglected to acknowledge just how hungry he was.

With a final look back at the now-empty hallway, Arthur entered the kitchen.

*****

Arthur enjoyed cooking; he stated unashamedly that it was a hobby of his. He would take recipes from The Great British Bake Off and attempt to replicate them, but for some reason, whenever he brought leftovers into work for his colleagues to share, they were often as not left uneaten.

Despite the harsh criticism he had been met with by many a family member, Arthur continued to cook, convincing himself that there was someone out there in the world who would at least appreciate his cooking.

So, naturally, on the rare occasions in which he was to play host to a guest, he went all out. The thought that this new acquaintance might actually like the food he cooked made him almost giddy.

This particular example was no exception. Arthur hummed enthusiastically to himself, flipping the elaborate omelette he had cooked in its pan. He had brewed the tea to perfection, using the loose leaves he kept at the back of the cupboard for special occasions. The toast was toasting at optimum conditions in his newish, state-of-the-art toaster.

He took a cursory glance at the hash browns and bacon strips simmering away; they were cooked to perfection. Well, they were slightly charred on both sides, but Arthur figured you had to allow some leeway for these things. He wasn’t Jamie Oliver, after all.

The smoke alarm went off suddenly just as Arthur was preparing the crockery. He jolted, painfully aware of how he might’ve ruined his guest’s experience in an instant. He snatched up the oven gloves and began erratically flailing them below the smoke alarm in a desperate bid to mollify the incessant screeching.

After the storm had abated, he listened carefully for any sounds of commotion from the front room, but there were only the muffled voices of the TV. Even next-door’s old lady was silent; perhaps she had decided to leave her house for the first time in fifty years.

In any case, Arthur was able to breathe a sigh of relief and continue serving out the breakfast. Using a fish slice, he divided the omelette in half almost exactly (a feat he took immense pride in). After adding the bacon, hash browns and heavily buttered toast, he picked up both plates, throwing a kitchen towel over his shoulder with a flourish as he did so.

He had to consciously keep himself from running like an impatient schoolboy as he made his way down the corridor. Once he entered the living room, however, he was unable to keep the grin off his features.

The TV had switched over from Good Morning Britain to a repeat of some sort of daytime period drama, which was like as not targeted at the same age group as his overly auditory neighbour. 

The samurai watched it with as much fascination as he had the breakfast show. Then again, Arthur supposed that he was probably a good few hundred years older than his neighbour, at least insofar as chronology was concerned.

And, in spite of that fact, the other man seemed - at least outwardly - rather comfortable in his current situation. Arthur’s jeans looked baggy on him, but there was a sense of profound dignity in the way he sat, cross-legged as before, with his katana balanced across his knees. He looked up slowly as Arthur entered the room. 

Arthur smiled. “I’m truly sorry about earlier,” he began, nodding towards the katana. “That’s your property, after all. It was wrong of me to take it…” He trailed off, watching his reflection in the other’s eyes. “Um, well. I assumed you were hungry, so I made us both breakfast. I hope it’s to your liking.”

With a flourish, he set the plate on the glass-topped table in front of the samurai before navigating around to the other side of the sofa, where he settled himself on a patch that wasn’t quite as bloodstained as the rest. Arthur picked up his knife and fork and glanced towards his guest, ready to take the cue to start eating from him.

However, Arthur’s smile began to slip as said guest simply stared back at him, his eyes filled with a question he was unable to phrase. But there was something else there too; something that Arthur recognised as gratitude. The man nodded in his direction once before pulling his plate into his lap and picking up his knife and fork with slow and cautious deliberation.

“Itadakimasu,” the samurai murmured. He then paused momentarily, staring down at the alien food with a combination of sadness and uncertainty. He then began poking his omelette with the fork experimentally as he attempted to cut small squares using the knife, without much success.

Arthur felt regret and disappointment wash over him in equal volume. He realised that he had been too caught up in himself, in putting on an elaborate show, to actually anticipate the other’s response. And in the process, he’d forgotten exactly who he was dealing with.

He didn’t know who he was dealing with, and that was exactly where he had gone wrong.

The guy’s a samurai, for God’s sake. He’s probably a… what? Buddhist? He noticed the way the other man’s eyes seemed to deliberately avoid the bacon, as though pretending that it wasn’t there. He doesn’t eat red meat, now, does he…?

“Um, I could take that for you, if you want.” Leaning over somewhat awkwardly, Arthur indicated the bacon. “And - oh, uh…” The other man had still not succeeded in cutting up his omelette. “Let me help you.” Arthur put his own plate aside and shifted in further to gently prise the knife and fork from the other’s hands.

Within seconds, Arthur had sliced the omelette into neatly proportioned squares and, after pausing to guiltily swipe up the bacon from the other’s plate, hastily retreated to his former position.

He bent over his own breakfast, silently sighing as he filled his nostrils, vision and mouth with the various sensory qualities of hash browns.

Sure, having breakfast by himself was lonely. But perhaps he’d had one too many lonesome breakfasts - he’d forgotten just how awkward meals in company could be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes for confused Americans:  
> -Piers Morgan is one of two hosts of the ITV breakfast show "Good Morning Britain". He's an arsehole (my opinion).  
> -Jamie Oliver is a TV chef. He also has a restaurant chain. Disclaimer: I don't actually know how good he is, as I've never tried one of his recipes, but I assume you have to be better than Arthur at least to become a TV chef.
> 
> Japanese Translations:  
> “Dokona no…?! Sore wa doko ni aru?!” = "Where...? Where is it?"  
> “Sesshya no ken! Sochi wa sore de nani o shimashita ka?!” = "My sword! What did you do with it?"  
> “Sesshya ni kotae, yarou!” = "Answer me, you bastard!"  
> "Itadakimasu" = It doesn't exactly translate, but literally means something like "to receive". It's usually used to express gratitude for receiving something, and is most notably used before eating, in the sense of thanking nature for the food.  
> (I'm also trying to get Kiku to use old-style "samurai Japanese", but this is probably inaccurate and really goofy-sounding if you happen to be a native speaker. >~< Trying to be historically accurate is hard... Let me know if you think this is a good idea or not.)


	3. Ah, consumerism; the shitty, shiny jewel of the twenty-first century. How we love it so!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good evening!~ Or morning, or afternoon, as the case may be. Anyway, here's yet another belated chapter. Two, in fact. So I hope you very much enjoy them. All the feedback I've received so far from you guys has been wonderful; honestly, it's half the reason I update, considering how distracted I am at the moment by life's various machinations.  
> In any case, this chapter is essentially an excuse to dump a bucket of fluff on you all in preparation for the next chapter wherein - not to spoil anything - shit starts to go down. But it does say in the tags that this story contains or will contain a little bit of everything, so yeah... I probably don't need to say much really.  
> Anyway, please let me know what you thought of these two chapters and I'll see you again in the next update!  
> -Le Fez-Wearing Husky

They finished breakfast just as a particularly egregious advert blared out of the television.

“Introducing the all-new Sparkle-Shine-Finish range of cleaning products from Jiffy-omatrics!” warbled the gushing voice-over. “Never has it been easier to keep your home sparkling -”

The voice-over abruptly cut off as Arthur pressed down irritably on the remote control. The samurai jumped in surprise and turned quickly to the device in Arthur’s hands, eyes wide in confusion. He stared at the remote as though it were a loaded gun.

“Er, sorry about that…” Arthur murmured as he guiltily set the remote back down. “That woman’s voice was really getting on my nerves.” He shook his head. “Ugh. I’d rather have a house full of nothing but dust before I bought anything from that bloody company.”

He glanced over at his guest, who was now gazing forlornly at his murky reflection in the dormant television screen. The plate in front of him had been cleared without complaint, though Arthur supposed that could have been purely out of politeness rather than any actual affinity for the food. In fact, given the little he knew about Japanese etiquette, it was probably the former.

Arthur’s mouth twitched. The other’s face remained largely impassive as he stared down at the katana in his lap, but the blond was almost overcome with the concern that he might well have offended the man - if not with his cooking then with his mannerisms. He scratched the back of his neck as he attempted to think of something that could bridge the growing chasm of awkwardness.

“I - um,” Arthur began. The samurai immediately looked attentively over, but his eyes subtly averted as soon as they met Arthur’s own.

“I’ve just come to realise,” Arthur pushed through the lump in his throat, “that we haven’t even introduced ourselves yet.” He sheepishly smiled before placing a hand over his chest and leaning forward, attempting all he could to communicate across his point. “Arthur. That’s my name. Arthur Kirkland.”

The other blinked slowly before opening his mouth uncertainly. “Ah-fur... Kurku… land,” he repeated, hesitant.

Arthur nodded. “Just call me Arthur. And you?” He made sure to gesture towards the samurai as meaningfully as he could.

“...Honda,” he replied with a small smile.

“Honda?” Arthur repeated, immediately thinking of cars. Then, he supposed, that brand was Japanese, so perhaps this man could be an ancient ancestor of the modern-day company? ...Or not. Either way, Arthur felt oddly glad that the other man had told him his name. It conveyed a strange sense of intimacy.

“Thank you,” he found himself saying, though he couldn’t quite ascertain why.

Honda nodded in response, having seemingly understood.

Silence fell between the two again, but more comfortably this time. Arthur found himself smiling at the other man, almost without noticing - until Honda suddenly looked away.

Arthur cringed. Shit, did I offend him again? he thought, panicking. But as he looked over again, he saw that Honda was merely staring down at the television remote. He tentatively picked it up and turned it around in his hands, eyes scrutinising each and every corner.

“Um…” There was something else that bothered Arthur. As he continued watching the other man, noticing how the jeans he wore came down past his heel, he realised it.

“Let’s go out today, hey?” Arthur suggested, picking himself up off the sofa. “I’ll show you the wonders of London… such that they are. Still, it’s more spectacular than just watching a television screen.”

Honda apologetically shook his head.

Arthur sighed. At some point, this was going to drive him insane. I hadn’t wanted to do this, he thought as he whipped out his phone, but it looks like it’s the only option I have.

He rapidly tapped his explanation into Google Translate in the simplest terms he could manage, before turning the phone around and all but thrusting the translation into Honda’s face: “The clothes that you borrowed don’t fit, so we could go out and get some better ones if you like.”

Honda blinked back, initially surprised, then subdued as he read the writing on the screen. Clearly the gist of the message had transferred across, however, because Honda then nodded, smiling through his confusion.

Arthur returned the smile and proffered his hand out to Honda.

The samurai looked up at him momentarily before taking his hand and allowing himself to be pulled up, grabbing the hilt of his katana as he did so.

Arthur’s eyes fell on the sword. “Oh, erm, about that,” he began, chuckling awkwardly. “I know it was probably fine back in the day, but you know… carrying a sword around would just be like inviting a jail sentence. So, you’re going to have to leave it behind.”

He hesitated before typing this into his phone, again trying to keep the sentence as clean and simple as he could.

Honda, after bending over the phone once again, immediately looked up at him with a frown across his features and uttered, “Doushite?”

Arthur guessed the meaning from the context and inputted a reply: “We’ll be arrested otherwise.” He silently prayed that Google would at least return something legible, and turned the screen so Honda could see.

Honda still seemed baffled, even slightly annoyed, but nodded as though he understood. “Wakarimasu.”

Arthur breathed a sigh of relief. All things considered, that had gone a lot better than he would have otherwise hoped. And he supposed communicating through an instant translator would suffice for now. In fact, he wondered why he hadn’t tried such a thing earlier on.

“Well, then,” he concluded, patting Honda’s shoulder, “let’s go, shall we?”

Arthur made to move towards the front door, collecting the keys from the mouldy dish set on the side of the hallway. He peered through the concave swirls of the door window. The sunlight was near blinding. Arthur smiled: Yes, a rare day of glory such as this one was not to be wasted by either working or sitting indoors watching telly.

Arthur turned around in time to see Honda emerge from the living room. The blond grinned briefly before he unlocked the door.

*****

Oxford Street seemed almost deserted on that late Wednesday morning. Arthur had to admit that he found the entire concept slightly baffling; for once, it seemed he didn’t have to push his way through a tumultuous crowd just to get to the next shop.

Arthur glanced over at Honda. The young samurai was glancing left and right, his gaze never landing on a single object for more than a full second. He was clearly intrigued by all he saw, yet apprehensive. He stuck close enough to Arthur so that he’d always be within reach. 

Although he was doing an impressive job of hiding it, Arthur could tell that Honda was probably, most likely scared shitless of this strange new world he found himself in.

The first major obstacle had been the ticket barrier at Highbury and Islington Tube station. Arthur showed the other man what he was supposed to do with his ticket, but Honda seemed so perplexed by the entire idea that he hesitated before crossing the barrier - leaving it to slam back in his face and swallow his ticket whole when he failed to cross during the vital two-second window. They’d had to summon a station attendant to help him cross. Arthur suspected that that wasn’t to be the only dose of embarrassment he’d receive that day.

As for the train itself - well. Honda was clearly discomforted by the idea of being in a sealed capsule a hundred metres below ground and hurtling through dark, debris-filled tunnels at twenty miles and hour, but he didn’t go so far as to cling to the overhead poles for dear life. Not for the first time, Arthur realised just how remarkably stoic his companion was.

And now they were here. Aside from the occasional wary glance sent Honda’s way - Arthur supposed that the baggy clothes, disheveled long hair and facial injuries made him appear like a tramp or hooligan to the few senior citizens that passed them by - the journey had gone surprisingly smoothly.

Here, of course, was a popular, not-too-gaudy, not-too-expensive fashion store. He hadn’t consciously picked out the shop, but he supposed it seemed like the most obvious place to start.

Arthur looked back at Honda, who was self-consciously smoothing down the collar of his shirt. The blond gave a reassuring smile. “Come on, then.”

Honda balked momentarily at the automatic doors, but seemed to get over his initial shock fairly quickly. He followed Arthur in, wincing slightly at the autotuned pop music playing over his head. Arthur nodded in understanding.

“Sorry about this. Music tends to have pretty low standards nowadays,” he commented.

The shop’s interior was almost blindingly bright. Arthur caught his own reflection in the faux-marble floor. There seemed to be a separate light fixture for each display, which seemed gratuitously excessive in light of the fact that the sun was currently out and shining.

Shielding his eyes against the glare, Arthur navigated the shop floor, Honda following a few paces behind. It seemed the major fashions for the season were plaid shirts and damaged jeans, neither of which he really considered suited Honda.

He felt a light pressure against his elbow and almost jolted as he turned. He was too embarrassed to meet Honda’s eyes, but he saw the other had already collected an armful of clothes.

“Are those in the right size?” he asked, promptly picking up the first one off the pile. It was a slim white shirt with an oddly archaic design; brass pins were set in the sleeves and an simplistic sort of embroidery was evident around the edges. He imagined Honda wearing it, and an image jumped into his mind of a serious-looking salaryman, like those he had seen once in a documentary. He almost chuckled.

After providing Honda with what he hoped were the right sizes (Honda once again seemed quietly baffled at the mass quantities of standardised sizes, having come from an age where everything was, Arthur presumed, handmade and tailored to fit) Arthur walked him over to the changing rooms.

Honda pulled back the curtains to look inside the nearest cubicle. He blinked back at his own reflection before looking towards Arthur, who nodded encouragingly. With a faint smile, the noirette shifted the curtains closed and disappeared inside.

Arthur leant back against the opposite wall as he waited. He breathed out a steady sigh. Everything seemed strangely tranquil in here, not least because the irritating pop music that perpetuated throughout the rest of the shop was muted. Whereas before his mind felt almost full to bursting, now it was serenely empty. He absently wondered why that was.

The blond straightened as the curtains rattled back across. Honda emerged, as gracefully as usual. Arthur appraised him; it seemed the clothes were a good fit, and they suited him surprisingly well. The stark white of the shirt and jeans contrasted well with the shiny ebony of his hair. The new outfit didn’t exactly fit with his battered sandals, however - Arthur supposed that new shoes were next on the agenda.

“You look good,” Arthur commented, and relayed his reply through his phone.

The slightest tint of rose touched Honda’s cheeks as he replied. “Katajikenai.”

It didn’t exactly take an expert to work out what that meant. Arthur found his own cheeks warming at the gesture, his heartbeats coming perhaps slightly faster than was typical.

However, he thought very little of it at the time.

*****

They left the shop about an hour in a half later with two oversized paper bags. Arthur had, against his conscience, ended up buying some extra things for himself on the basis that they were “rather nice”, albeit completely unnecessary.

He breathed out as he entered the noon sunlight. This was the supreme psychological puppetry of the masters of Oxford Street, and it was nigh impossible to avoid. Gaudy red-and-white signs and glitzy posters on every corner and surface demanded, “GIVE US ALL YOUR MONEY AND WE’LL MAKE YOU REALLY REALLY HAPPY.”

Arthur’s attention slid over to Honda, who seemed slightly more at ease in the world around him following his first modern shopping experience. The blond wondered whether the signs would have had the same effect on Honda, had he been able to understand them. Was his era as concerned with leisure and excessive material gain as Arthur’s?

Then again, judging from the condition he first appeared before Arthur in, he had likely come straight from a total warzone. He’d probably think of all this glitz and glamour as pure frivolity.

They made a right turn, passing one of the squat, overpriced snack vendors that had colonised London like a new species of weed. Albeit, a very aromatically agreeable species of weed. Arthur inhaled a few gulps of Belgian waffle-infused air as he passed. A mere whiff set his stomach to grumbling.

Honda stopped and looked up at him, seemingly having cued the blond’s reaction. Arthur chuckled lightly.

“It is lunchtime, I suppose,” he reasoned, pulling out his phone. Still anxious that he may have offended the other man by supplying him with an all-English overcooked breakfast, he decided to search for a decent Japanese restaurant in the near vicinity by way of atonement. Within a few seconds, Google had turned up a plethora of results; one of which was just under a mile away, and appeared to have good reviews. It was only after he had copied the postcode into his phone’s satellite map that he noticed Honda was watching the whole procedure over his shoulder.

“...Oh…” Arthur turned his phone so that Honda could see the screen more clearly. “It’s a map,” he explained, indicating the pulsating dot that showed their current position. “And that - that’s us, right there.”

Honda looked at him helplessly. His lips didn’t move, but Arthur could see the question in his eyes, the question that he couldn’t pose. Arthur broke his gaze and instead pointed vaguely towards the chill blue sky. “It works by signals from satellites,” he continued by way of distracting himself, “which communicate from far up beyond the atmosphere.”

Honda peered in the direction Arthur indicated, squinting up through the shaft of sunlight that poured in over the narrow rooftops. “Usagi,” he muttered.

“...Eh?” The samurai continued staring. Had he actually seen something up there? Arthur turned to check, but he only discerned wispy clouds.

Honda tapped his shoulder, and Arthur looked back at him. “Usagi,” he repeated, and made a quick motion with his hands, pulling them up to his temples and curling them over to make a vague approximation of ears.

It took a moment for Arthur to get it, and he only realised once his gaze had wandered back to the clouds - several of which, he now noticed, were shaped in near-anatomically correct proportions as fluffy white rabbits. Unable to help himself, he burst out laughing.

He wasn’t certain what had tickled him, but perhaps the idea that this man - a battle-hardened samurai warrior - could look up into the sky and see cute fluffy rabbits was a notion that both warmed and amused him.

Meeting the other’s bemused expression, Arthur’s mirth quickly petered out. He opened his mouth to apologise, but before he could, Honda began to chuckle.

The blond was taken aback. The other was usually so silent and stoic that Arthur had never expected to hear him laugh. And Honda laughed just as he spoke; softly, and with sincerity. The sound drew Arthur’s lips into a smile.

His gaze returned momentarily to the rabbits, frolicking as they were across a meadow of azure. I suppose we’re all frivolous sometimes, he thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes for confused Americans:  
> -IMPORTANT DISCLAIMER: Jiffy-omatrics isn't a real company, thank god.
> 
> Japanese translations:  
> "Doushite?" = "Why?"  
> "Wakarimasu." = "I understand." (Which is about 40% true and 60% just being nice, by my reckoning)  
> "Katajikenai." = "Thank you."  
> "Usagi" = "Rabbit"


	4. Violence isn't the answer to everything. But without any other words, what else can you say?

Lunch turned out to be better than Arthur had dared hope. Honda still seemed rather bemused by what was on offer, albeit less so than by Arthur’s homecooked breakfast. Arthur had to wonder just how much typical Japanese cuisine had changed in the years before Honda’s timely arrival.

Arthur wasn’t exactly a newbie when it came to chopsticks, but Honda made even his most dextrous attempts look clumsy. Arthur’s ramen was almost cold by the time he had finished, and Honda had already polished off his tekkadon and balanced his chopsticks neatly atop the bowl.

Arthur looked at him by way of apology, but Honda merely smiled patiently as he sipped a cup of complimentary green tea. In response, Arthur gathered the straggling pieces of soba and pork into one corner of his bowl and downed the remaining soup in one gulp. He practically threw down his bowl and chopsticks with a triumphant clatter, causing the other man to blink in surprise.

“That’s better,” Arthur murmured contentedly. “I’m just going to pay the bill, okay?” He didn’t bother to translate that statement, seeing as the counter was within direct eyeshot of Honda. 

He had just swiped his card across the contactless sensor when a sudden commotion arose from directly outside the restaurant.

Honda, along with a number of other diners, looked up at the abrupt sound. As far as Arthur could see, the source was some sort of altercation; two men stood facing each other, seemingly oblivious to the world around them. Their voices were raised to such a high level that their words could be discerned through the restaurant’s thick front windows.

“Five hundred goddamn quid!” proclaimed one of them, his outrage muted only marginally by the glass barrier. “That’s a fuckin’ ripoff if I ever saw one.”

“Take it or leave it,” the other replied gruffly. “I don’t have enough time to haggle wi’ ya right now. You keep that right up and the boys in blue will come soon enough, I tell ya.”

“You think I have that kind of money on me right now?” protested the first man. “Hey, just give ‘em ‘ere and I’ll pay you back. With interest.”

Arthur met Honda’s puzzled gaze. Clearly, there was some sort of dodgy backstreet deal going on, but why the two men were making themselves so conspicuous, Arthur hadn’t a clue. Still, seeing as they appeared to be so wrapped up in themselves, the blond hoped that he and Honda would be able to walk past without getting so much as involved. He decided to leave quickly, just in case the whole fiasco ended up developing into an even bigger scene.

He’d once been a proper cop. He’d seen it happen.

Tentatively grasping Honda’s elbow, he led the other cautiously out onto the street. Immediately, the intensity of the argument seemed to increase threefold. Arthur saw that one of the men was right up in the other’s face; a situation of violence seemed almost inevitable at this point.

“You’re still indebted to me, y’know,” the slightly more subdued man continued, his expression a carefully maintained poker face. “So how do I know I’ll get any of that interest back?”

“Just trust me!” Manic desperation had begun to seep into the other man’s voice.

At this point, Arthur and Honda had almost passed them. The blond allowed some of the tension in his muscles to relax and blew out a short gust of air. Honda kept pace with him.

“I’ll give you one more day to come up with the cash,” the poker-faced man drawled, his voice a honed edge of finality. “Or the deal’s off.” Brisk footsteps followed as the man left, walking hastily in the opposite direction to Arthur and Honda.

Is it over? Arthur caught himself thinking, but no sooner had those words lanced through his mind than a sudden shout of “Hey, you!” sounded from behind.

Arthur froze. “Shit,” he muttered under his breath.

He had to fight the urge to take off running and instead turned around, hoping that his recent years of pushing paperwork behind a desk hadn’t rusted the all-action skills he’d acquired as a probie.

It looked as if he was going to need them. One glance at the man in front of him gave him a single description: unhinged. His pupils were wide, his gaze restless and spasmodic, his narrow fingers shivering like skeletal branches in a gale. He was young, roughly the same age as Arthur himself, with a head of bedraggled air. He had the unmistakable symptoms of cold turkey.

“Yes?” Arthur replied, trying to sound as authoritarian as he possibly could. “Do you need something?”

The man’s wild eyes fixed on his own. He didn’t answer, other than to gasp out wheezing, raspy breaths. He stepped closer. Arthur braced himself.

Something silver flashed in the other man’s hand. It drew up in a mercurial arc, shining almost hypnotically as it curved towards Arthur’s face. It was coming faster than was believable, far too fast for Arthur to intercept -

Then came a rapid whoosh and the scrape of steel on steel, almost simultaneously. The addict’s bloodshot eyes widened even further as his knife was sent spinning across the pavement. He staggered backwards.

Honda had, in the moment of Arthur’s inaction, dashed between the two of them and knocked the knife straight from the attacker’s grip with the flat of his blade. He stood gracefully poised - katana in one hand, elaborate sheath in the other. The edge of the blade was inches from the neck of Arthur’s assailant.

The addict’s eyes were fixed on the gleaming sword. “Th- that’s a toy, isn’t it?” he stammered, righting himself frustratedly. “Don’t fuck with me! Who do you think you are, fucking Jackie Chan or -”

Silently - calmly, even - Honda shifted forwards so that his blade left the merest graze against the other’s neck. Maniacally, the disheveled man leapt backwards in terror and dived out of range before Honda could strike again. In a moment, he was gone, having scrambled out of sight down a back alley.

Arthur felt his whole body trembling. There were too many ideas running through his head for his thoughts to form anything but fragmentary sentences. All the while, Honda watched him through calm eyes as he smoothly replaced the katana in its sheath and made to stuff it down the inside of his trouser leg - which, Arthur realised, was where he had been hiding it all this time.

Without thought, Arthur’s hand shot out and grabbed the point just below the handguard, his fingers pressing against Honda’s own. “G-give me the sword,” he managed, squeezing as hard as he could.

Honda’s gaze hardened abruptly, the dark brown taking on a sheen of steel. Remembering just who this man was, Arthur quailed and let go.

Arthur’s own heavy breathing filled the silence between them. By some miracle, the street had been almost empty during that encounter, and the only one there to witness the confrontation had been a teenager on the opposite side of the street, her headphones jammed over her ears and her eyes closed, head nodded backward in an audiophile’s paradise.

Suddenly exhausted, and feeling distinctly like he might just regurgitate the ramen bowl he had just eaten, Arthur rubbed his forehead and sighed.

“Let’s… let’s just go home, goddamnit,” he muttered.

*****

The journey home was no more silent than their outing to Oxford Street had been, but there was an additional barrier between them now; invisible, but oppressively undeniable.

Honda remained adjacent to Arthur, his outward demeanour as impassive as always - except for his eyes. Arthur hadn’t noticed until now that Honda’s eyes were the most expressive part of him; whilst before they were bright with apprehensive intrigue, they had since dimmed, the colour dulling from a rich mahogany-brown to near black. They rarely met eyes. Honda had now an aura of indifference that ran counter to Arthur’s own suppressed rage.

Arthur was fully aware of how angry he felt at being betrayed by the other man, and desired nothing more than to give him an earful. Perhaps he would, the moment they stepped through his front door.

But he also couldn’t deny how fearful he still was of the other man. He’d now witnessed his skill with a sword first-hand - so fast, even when still bearing that injury from the night before. It hadn’t even compared to the swiftness with which he had been pinned during their first exchange. Arthur had barely seen the other’s arm move - and what he had seen had been enacted with graceful precision and purposefulness that left no room for doubt. This man had been made to kill.

The blond found he couldn’t tear his gaze away from the other. He stood, straining against the overhead rails, his body gripped by tension, scrutinising Honda for any suspicious movement. The samurai’s hands remained slack at his sides, balancing easily on the clattering train with one arm. Arthur’s eyes flickered downward to Honda’s lower hip, where he knew the hilt of his sword was suspended against his leg.

He tightened his grip on the rails above. Why was he freaking out like this now? He was Arthur Kirkland. He was no stranger to black magic, having brought curses down upon the wannabe gangsters in his secondary school as well as a number of his current colleagues. He had made others fear him, rather than the other way around (all except his current boss, who remained for the most part unmoved by the rumours surrounding himself and his knack for inducing “black karma”).

But this fear was deeper than that he felt towards his boss, or indeed towards anyone. As insincere and unpredictable as his boss was, Arthur felt that he could at least sometimes guage what he was thinking. But with Honda… their communication was little more than a dark void. He knew almost nothing about him, and his attempts to understand the other had been answered with myriad contradictory signals.

If only…

Arthur shut that thought down with a slight toss of his head. No. Communication wasn’t going to work this time. He couldn’t risk the possibility that Honda might actually murder someone - if that happened, Arthur would surely be dragged down with him.

So, aboard the rattling train in those dusty underground tunnels, Arthur formulated a plan.

*****

Tea was a solemn affair. 

Arthur had been unexpectedly drained by his earlier encounter, and so, perhaps caring less about what Honda thought of his cooking this time around, flung a large pizza into the oven and proceeded to knock back three cups of tea. The smoke alarm went off again, but Arthur didn’t bother to silence it. In the end, he had produced two chargrilled hemi-pizzas ringed by crusts that had all but blackened. He set Honda’s portion on the table in front and, following a questioning glance, curtly muttered, “Eat it with your bloody fingers,” before proceeding to do just that.

After they had finished, Arthur switched the TV on, out of habit more than anything else. On BBC1 there was a repeat showing of one of his favourite episodes of Doctor Who, but he found he could barely concentrate on it with Honda sitting right next to him.

It was only after an hour or so of anxiously pushing burnt crumbs around his plate that Arthur heard a soft snore permeate the small living room. Immediately, he glanced over.

It seemed that Honda could retain his graceful posture even whilst sleeping. His head was skewed at a slight angle, but other than that, his position was exactly the same as when he had been sitting awake - cross-legged, hands on his knees and shoulders upright.

Arthur moved tentatively closer, balancing carefully on his hands and knees. The sofa was still slippery from the disinfectant he had sprayed on it earlier in order to wipe off the blood, so he advanced slowly. He saw the tip of the katana’s hilt poking out from the juncture between Honda’s jeans and shirt. Arthur swallowed. In order to take the sword out he would have to place his hand down the other’s trousers. The mere thought set his cheeks ablaze.

Using one thumb, he pulled back the hem of the trousers and managed, with some difficulty, to squeeze his hand through the tiny gap. His breath hitched as his fingers brushed against the warmth of the other’s skin, but when he glanced up, he saw that Honda’s face hadn’t so much as shifted. After gaining purchase on the sword, he pulled it out very slowly. The blade proved to be longer than he had expected.

He straightened up, clutching the katana in both hands, his breath coming in gasps. He had the distinct feeling that he had just burgled the lair of a sleeping dragon.

As quickly and silently as he could, he made for the front porch, replaced his shoes and carefully locked the door. He faced the night, breathing steadily in an attempt to calm himself.

The dim orange streetlamps caught on the metallic petals of the sword’s chrysanthemum handguard. Arthur paused. It truly was a beautiful object but… looks were clearly deceiving. This particular blossom was tainted with an inherent ugliness. He shook his head. He should have opted to do this yesterday as Honda slept - back then, the full reality of his situation still had yet to fall upon him. But now, it had.

He had to do this.

But how was he going to do it? That was the dilemma he now faced. His first thought had been the local canal, which wasn’t too far, but… Somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to throw the thing into a watery grave. As much as he attempted to suppress his feelings, he couldn’t stop imagining those elaborate engravings rust away to nothing.

He circled his neighbourhood for a while, hoping he would find something to give him inspiration. 

As he turned down the end of his road for the third time, he entered an alleyway and then into the courtyard of a block of council flats. In the shadow of the squat, nondescript building, the hulking outlines of several large dumpsters were visible.

Holding his sleeve against his nose to avoid inhaling whatever abominable biochemical weapon lay fermenting inside, Arthur tossed the weapon in and allowed the lid to drop with a resounding thud. A fox, forming a reddish streak in the corner of his vision, darted back into the darkness at the noise.

Arthur breathed. The deed was done.

Trying not to dwell on the regret that gnawed against the walls of his stomach, Arthur shoved his hands in his pockets and headed home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes for confused Americans:  
> Quid = slang term for pound sterling (£). I generally think this little fact is quite widely known, but you know, just in case. (i'mtryingtobehelpfulheregoddamnit)  
> Boys in blue = more slang, refers to the police. Just for the record, I have never seen a police officer in a blue uniform, which makes me think that this term is probably outdated.


	5. A genius is simply a person who will do whatever is necessary in order to figure out the truth. In other words; a goddamn maniac.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Praise the gods, the fifth chapter has finally been uploaded. Anyway, I thank you for waiting patiently (or not patiently, as the case may be) for this update, and I apologise for having making you wait for so long. In light of the fact that I'm going to have to put a pretty heavy focus on schoolwork from now on (I have exams upon which my future is riding in less than two months' time) I won't make any promises for the sixth chapter, although I do have a pretty solid concept for it in my head, so with any luck this story shall continue.  
> Anyways, there isn't really much left to say. I hope you enjoy this chapter.~

Klaas van Schwarzenberg puffed at a stray lock of hair as he regarded the clutter before him. A veritable mountain range of rust-speckled armour, tattered and age-stained clothes from various periods, corroded blades and kabuto crests of every shape that had all long since lost their lustre to time, was packed into the tiny storage room.

Klaas, as a general rule, hated mess, but as a museum curator, it was one of the things he found himself constantly dealing with. Suppliers had a tendency to dump things in boxes and leave without even bothering to sort the items by size and type. He had never been a lazy person, but now that one of the co-curators for the upcoming exhibition had unexpectedly resigned, Klaas now had to deal with everything himself.

Well, at least he was now getting paid extra for overtime.

With an inaudible sigh, Klaas entered the room and sat down heavily at a worktable amidst the clutter. The table was spread with neatly ordered and immaculately detailed paper records as well as several tools used for polishing and repairing exhibits. He settled immediately into his work rhythm, pulling off a kusarigama from a nearby pile and wiping the dust from its dull blades with a worn cloth. He then appraised the weapon through a pair of loupes before scribbling a note in the margins of one of the papers, and then finally strode across the room to suspend the artefact by the chain from a wall hook.

In the same manner, he reached for the next weapon - an elegant yumi - clucking his teeth as he noticed the rather large splinter across its grip. He turned it over in his gloved hands, but before he was able to start working on it, something else in the weapons pile caught his eye.

A canvas-wrapped bundle had been deposited atop the pile, secured by a carefully tied knot of red fabric. Threaded through the knot was a scrawled note, the handwriting of which Klaas instantly recognised as belonging to Maggie, the head curator. Intrigued, Klaas set the yumi down and pulled the bundle into his lap, twisting the note so that it caught the light.

“This just arrived in the wee hours of the morning - we hadn’t sent for it, supplier just showed up with a story you’d never believe. Apparently the binmen had found this in a dumpster in Islington in near-perfect condition - well, despite it being covered in banana peels, of course. Sorry I’m too busy to chat about this right now, but it would make for an excellent addition to your exhibition, wouldn’t it? Seeing as it’s so well-preserved. -M”

“Hm,” Klaas grunted habitually. A dumpster in Islington? It seemed as though some idiot hadn’t realised that they were throwing away a valuable antique. Well, it was their loss, he supposed. Making a mental note in his head to discuss the bundle’s contents with Maggie later, he untied the knot and carefully unwrapped the canvas sheet.

He had to blink at what he saw.

A perfectly preserved - no, brand new katana lay in the thick folds of canvas. Not a speck of rust was visible. In that moment, Klaas was utterly convinced that he had been duped. This had to be a fake - even if it happened to be an old ceremonial sword from the Meiji period, it would still have shown some signs of ageing. But this blade looked as if it had been used just yesterday.

Klaas fitted his loupes to take a closer look. Apart from a few scratches, there was no evidence that the scabbard had not been crafted a week ago. He drew a third of the blade out and bent over to analyse its steel surface - again, there were the faint scratches that suggested use in combat, and even a reddish tint to the bladed edge that had the dubious sheen of residual blood. But considering how archaic the sword’s design was, Klaas knew that couldn’t have been possible.

It had to be a prank - albeit a very elaborate one. But then there was the question of why. Who would go this far just for a few shits and giggles? The sword both looked and felt exactly like a katana from the late years of the Sengoku period - or perhaps early Tokugawa period. Either way, its design was at least four hundred years old. It was expertly crafted from real steel, and looked to have a newly sharpened edge. Those facts were undeniable. But they simply didn’t add up.

Klaas slipped the blade back into its sheath and sat back to take another look at the sword. The ostentatious chrysanthemum design suggested that the sword’s purpose was largely ceremonial, yet it had clearly been involved in combat at one point or another. That was assuming the sword was real. Alternatively, it could have been made for combat, and the design could have been added as some sort of trademark - which seemed more likely. But who would go for a design like this?

The more he stared, the more Klaas found himself intrigued. It was rare that he came upon an artefact that invoked so much curiosity in him - oftentimes, he felt as though he was doing this job for the money and because it suited him (having been descended from the owners of a Dutch trading company based in Japan, it had been a longstanding tradition in the van Schwarzenberg family to work in areas that were intrinsically Japan-related). But, very rarely, he felt sudden bursts of passion in his work. And that, ultimately, was what he lived for.

He turned the sword over again, and as he did so, his fingers brushed against a series of grooves cut into the base of the crossguard. Klaas peered to take a closer look.

He recognised three distinct kanji characters: origin, rice paddy, chrysanthemum. Considering the context, it was probably a name: “Honda Kiku”. Yes, it sounded like a name.

“Kiku, hm?” He supposed that explained the chrysanthemum-themed design. The owner of the sword clearly had an ego, or aesthetic sense, or both. Probably a member of the nobility, then… but then again, considering how battleworn the blade was…

Klaas sighed and stood up. At that point, he felt it appropriate to interrupt whatever work Maggie was doing - elsewise he would be too distracted with formulating theories on the mystery of this sword to do any of his own work.

So, rewrapping the katana in its canvas sheath, Klaas made to leave for his boss’s office with the blade tucked under his arm.

He hadn’t felt this giddy with excitement since he had been a schoolboy.

*****

Arthur knew he was shirking responsibility. He knew that this entire situation was going to come around and bite him in the arse at some point. And he knew there was no point in running from it.

And yet he was angry, and scared, and utterly exhausted. He had woken up wanting another three hours of sleep - not least because he found it impossible to get in the right position on the living room sofa. Having donated his own bed to Honda, he found that, through a mixture of guilt, fear and the knowledge that he quite desperately needed a new sofa, he was unable to sleep for about half the night.

Honda still hadn’t woken up by the time the old grandfather clock in Arthur’s bedroom had struck 7:30. The blond was in two minds about that fact. Although he didn’t dare shift Honda again from his peaceful resting position (having to carry him upstairs in the dead of night had been bad enough), he could at least ascertain that the samurai was still alive. Arthur kept telling himself that the other was merely rehabilitating, and that yesterday’s encounter had taken a greater toll on the noirette’s injured body and mind than he had deigned to show whilst awake.

It had been easy to forget just how brutal Honda’s injury had been when Arthur had observed his hale features and the way he walked - precise, poised, without a single misstep. In retrospect, Arthur felt that the man had to be superhuman.

Maybe he had been wrong about his initial conclusion - perhaps the samurai really did have some sort of occult association. It would go a long way in explaining the time travel, at least. But Arthur, retaining his pride as an occult expert, was reluctant to let go of his scepticism.

But that reluctance didn’t compare with the aversion he felt upon entering his workplace. Arthur found himself almost wishing that his boss would put him out of his misery, but of course, he received no such luck. Instead, he got yesterday’s full workload dumped on him - far more than he could even think to complete in a single day. And, to make matters worse, the constant anxiety surrounding his current home situation did more than enough to distract him from the job.

During his lunch break, he was glad to get out of that stifling office - or at least, more than he usually was. He found a paper, a cup of Earl Grey tea from the nearest Pret and a bench in the centre of one of London’s myriad green spaces. He absentmindedly flicked through the broadsheet as he sipped his tea. The world was still going to shite, of course. All the typical headlines were there, all screaming the imminence of social apocalypse. “Democracy” was once again featured on the obituaries page.

Arthur sighed, sipping again as he flicked over another page. And then he stopped, the cup frozen against his lips.

There, in a photograph taking up a near third of the page, was Honda’s sword. He recognised the chrysanthemum handguard immediately - less so did he recognise the surroundings it was placed in. Balanced atop an ornate stand within a dusty glass case in a dark room; most of the details, it seemed, had been deliberately obscured. But the sword shone as clearly and brightly as the dawn sun, right in the centre of the frame.

Arthur eventually managed to tear his eyes from the image to check the headline that went with it. “BRITISH MUSEUM ON THE HUNT FOR SWORD FAKERS”, it proclaimed with the sort of ecstatic glee that dissolved the minds of media officials into those of starving fruit flies.

Gripping the paper with both hands, Arthur read through the story unblinkingly.

“The British Museum, just a month in advance of its long-anticipated exhibition on the history of Japanese samurai, has acquired a classic katana, or traditional sword, that has been since baffling the Museum’s resident experts. According to Klaas van Schwarzenberg, head curator of the exhibition, the sword’s craftsmanship is at least four hundred years old, yet it doesn’t show any of the wear and tear one would expect from a sword of such an age. “We thought there was a strong possibility that it had been faked,” he said. “And we’re currently investigating whether that is in fact the case.” An even more bizarre aspect of this story, as Mr. van Schwarzenberg tells us, is the way in which the Museum acquired the sword. According to the curators, it was delivered to the site in the early morning by a courier who alleged that it had been found in a North London dumpster during the waste collection rounds -”

Arthur’s entire body went rigid. He remained in that position, statuesque, for a single moment before hurriedly scrunching the paper between his hands and then burying his face deep into the newsprint in embarrassment.

He’d been a fool. Of course. Of course! How could he possibly expect to just chuck the thing in a dumpster and be done with it? He should’ve just thrown it into the bloody canal. But - of course - he hadn’t, and now he was left to deal with the consequences.

In the same moment, he couldn’t be entirely certain why he was so bothered by the sword’s timely appearance in the newspaper. Of course, nobody knew that the sword belonged to a living, breathing samurai; they just thought it was faked. And as for Honda… well, there was no guarantee he’d ever find out about it, was there… ?

But, in that moment, he saw it. He saw Honda rooting through the pile of old newspapers Arthur left in his bedroom, happening by chance upon the very page Arthur now held in his hands. He saw news reporters turning up in a jostling queue outside his front door, asking over and over again how, and why, he had faked the sword that now adorned the front pages of every newspaper, magazine, billboard, disused telephone box -

At that point, Arthur was still vaguely aware of a voice in the back of his mind chastising him for being so paranoid - but it was all but drowned out by the feverish surge of unfounded fear that now perpetuated his entire body.

At this point, he didn’t trust his luck in the way that it was going. He wasn’t going to simply leave this to blow over or sort itself out - because he didn’t trust it to. Instead, he was going to go right in and deal with the heart of the issue. He was going to plug these rumours at their source.

And so, before he knew it, he was dashing madly through iron gates and across tarmac and pavement, blazing and blitzing through the lunchtime throngs towards the nearest Tube.

*****

The British Museum spread itself lazily and regally across its extensive grounds; a stonework lion with grand jaws of Roman columns. Crowds flooded in and out of its open doors.

Arthur took little notice of the museum’s grandeur as he swept in against the tide of tourists. He emerged into an expansive circular chamber whose size could have rivalled an airplane hangar. Anyone who stopped to notice it would have deemed it an architectural marvel, but Arthur was far too busy trying to locate the reception desk. When he finally found it, he ran up to it, still panting with the frenzy that had overtaken him during his headlong dash to the Tube.

The woman behind the polished counter was thoroughly entrenched in the screen of a Windows 2000 computer monitor. She didn’t look up as Arthur arrived, her fingers tapping methodically against the chunky keyboard, her eyes tracing unbroken lines across the screen. Arthur impatiently tapped the counter to get her attention.

The dim glare of the screen flashed in her glasses as the woman turned to face Arthur. “How can I help you?” she asked, her voice slightly strained beneath her regulation smile.

“I need to speak to Mr van Schwarzenberg,” he insisted, trying to sound as forceful as he could without appearing intimidating; which proved impossible. He saw the receptionist attempt and fail to hide her indignance.

She looked at him over her glasses in the way veteran receptionists do when asserting their authority. “What do you need from him, sir?” she asked pointedly. “Are you a journalist, come for an update on that strange sword of his?”

Arthur tried not to cringe at the mention of the sword. “Well - er - yes,” he blurted, his thoughts rattling in his head sporadically. “Please, it’s just - it’s urgent.”

The receptionist appraised him suspiciously. “I’m afraid I’m going to need some ID for that, sir.”

Arthur stopped. ID?! That’s just… He hadn’t planned that far ahead. In fact, he’d barely planned at all. His lip twitched. He was going to have to try a different tack.

“W-wait,” he garbled, as the receptionist made to turn back to her computer, “what… what I meant to say was that… I want to talk to him… because I’m the sword’s owner.”

The receptionist paused without looking at him, but it was only a moment’s hesitation. “I see,” she murmured, before plucking up a handset from the desk that was certainly older than the computer and possibly older than some of the museum’s exhibits. “Klaas,” she drawled, an edge of triumph creeping into her voice, “looks like your bait has caught you a big one.” The answer came, distorted and inaudible. “Yeah, no problem. I’ll send him up.” She half-dropped the handset on its pedestal with a clatter before turning to glance sideways at Arthur. “He’s in his office, which is in the corridor just behind the Egyptian gallery. Just follow the signs.” With that, she returned to her computer as though nothing had happened.

“Thanks,” Arthur muttered, totally bemused. 

What was all that about a ‘big catch’? That was clearly code for something, although Arthur didn’t pause to think about it. He walked as briskly as he could through the Egyptian gallery without knocking over any toddlers and managed to successfully locate the office whilst running almost on autopilot.

He paused before the heavy, brass-rimmed door. For the first time since he had noticed that newspaper article, he seriously questioned just what the fuck he was attempting to do here. But he’d already come too far to stop now, hadn’t he? He’d even told the receptionist that he knew about the sword. He was just going to attract more attention to himself if he suddenly made himself scarce.

So he rapped briskly on the door three times.

An interval of about ten seconds passed before something shifted inside and a brusque, muffled “Come in” seeped through the cracks in the frame. Arthur cautiously entered, wincing as the door’s hinges creaked.

The office was typical of a room in an ancient building that was reluctantly trying to modernise itself. Brass light fittings glinted off the polished wooden floor as badly concealed wires crisscrossed the ceiling. Light poured through a large and elaborately crafted window that overlooked the museum’s inner courtyard.

A man was sat at a desk of burgundy wood that spanned the length of the room from door to window. Numerous shelves were stacked above his head in an arrangement that reminded Arthur of a precarious Jenga tower. The man was busily tapping into his laptop as Arthur entered. He did not pause in his work until the door slammed heavily shut behind Arthur.

“So.” His English was fluent but unmistakably accented. As he turned round in his chair, Arthur noted his long jaw, prominent cheekbones and pale blond hair, which had been vigorously gelled into a ridiculous upright configuration. A long scarf was flung loosely across his shoulders. He had a severe expression, and he was so tall as to make the wheelie chair he sat in seem almost miniature. “You’re the sword’s creator, I take it…?”

“Y-yes,” Arthur blurted, before hurriedly correcting himself. “I mean no - I mean, I mean, just what the bloody heck do you think you’re doing?!” He gestured wildly in outrage in an attempt to compensate for his lack of articulation. “Going to the papers like that… a-and…” He cut himself short as he noticed the other’s expression.

The other blond looked on in a thoroughly disapproving fashion. “I had hoped you would at least have the grace to be up-front about it,” he sighed. “But alas. Come and sit down. I would like to ask you a few questions -”

Arthur took a step further into the room, feeling the frustration within him oscillate to boiling point. “I’ll be asking the questions, thank you very much,” he seethed. “And I’ll be taking that sword off your hands, if you don’t mind -”

“So you admit it,” the curator interrupted. “You are the one who fabricated that sword?”

“I never said that!” Arthur exploded. “I simply came here to… to…” Words faltered him, and in that same moment, he realised just how exhausted he was. He realised just what a mistake this was. And he realised just how thoughtless he’d been. Staring into the other man’s pale eyes, the emotion clouding his mind subsided, and he realised that he had walked himself straight into a trap.

“Sit down,” the other repeated firmly. “And tell me the truth of what is going on here.”

Arthur reluctantly obeyed him, drawing out a chair from his end of the desk. It was a rather worn wooden thing that scraped along the floor as it moved. It creaked subtly as Arthur threw his weight down onto it.

Before the other man could speak, Arthur, in an attempt to prove he had not been defeated, snapped, “So you’re Mr. van Schwarzenberg, then?”

The curator’s expression of quiet disapproval never shifted. “Ja. Klaas van Schwarzenberg. I specialise in the histories of the Asia Pacific region, including that of Japan. If you came here after reading that article, though, I suppose you would already know that.” He shifted slightly in his seat. “So. What did you hope to accomplish by fabricating that sword?”

Arthur didn’t meet Klaas’s gaze. He saw that he was going to have to tell the truth; there was no point in disgracing himself further, and he couldn’t see how he’d be able to convincingly lie in his current situation. Well, with any luck, the curator wouldn’t believe him, would agree to hand over the sword that he believed was fabricated, and then Arthur would be free to dispose of it. 

“I didn’t fabricate that sword. It was…” He hesitated. “I stole it.”

“From whom?” Interest had registered in Klaas’s voice but not in his stony expression.

“From a samurai,” Arthur answered, putting emphasis on each word.

Klaas’s expression still didn’t move. “And this samurai,” he intoned purposefully, “wouldn’t be anyone by the name of Kiku Honda, would it?”

Arthur blinked. “Y-yes,” he replied. “He said his name was Honda. How… how did you know?”

With a grunt, Klaas stood up and disappeared through a door in the back of the room. A few seconds later, he reappeared, carrying Honda’s sword with the same precise care as a parent carries their newborn child. He sat down, firmly outside Arthur’s reach, and showed the other the inscription on the base of the handguard. “This appears to be his signature,” Klaas explained. “I’m near-fluent in kanji, and I’ve double-checked every dictionary I own to be certain.” He balanced the sword - almost tauntingly, Arthur thought - across his knees and leant back in his chair. “So, tell me more about this samurai. You’ve met him, I take it?”

Arthur was momentarily speechless. He couldn’t tell from Klaas’s expression alone whether he was being serious or not. He hoped it was the latter. 

Perhaps it would have been better just to play along and tell Klaas that he had fabricated the sword in the first place... But that bridge had already been burnt. He was just going to have to continue with his current plan and hope his luck changed.

“Well, to be honest, I don’t know a whole lot about him,” Arthur explained pointedly. “I can’t speak Japanese, after all.”

“So what do you make of him, then? His mannerisms? Personality?” Klaas leaned forward as he spoke.

“He…” Arthur gritted his teeth, determined not to be intimidated by the other. “He’s, well, he’s polite. He doesn’t seem to mind me too much but…” He trailed off.

“But?” Klaas cocked his head to the side expectantly.

“...He’s a monster,” Arthur continued, his voice tentative. “He’s a fucking…” He gesticulated. “I mean, if I ever did anything to offend or scare him he’d turn me into fucking sashimi.”

Klaas nodded, seeming to understand. “Well, without knowing the man myself I couldn’t be sure, but that sounds like it could be a Sengoku period samurai. It’s not known as the ‘warring states’ period for nothing, after all.”

“Ah…” Arthur murmured vaguely. So it appeared his hypothesis about Honda having originated from a war zone was correct after all.

Klaas regarded him for a moment. His pale eyes were utterly calculating. Arthur couldn’t help but shift uncomfortably under them.

“W-well,” he began, in order to break the abysmal silence, “I didn’t think you’d believe me anyway.” He shrugged, forcing a sardonic chuckle. “I suppose you thought I was spinning this tale so that you’d believe I hadn’t faked the sword? Well, in that case…” He drew out the pause to allow for a deep sigh. “I admit defeat. You can hand that thing back to me.” He held out his hand to receive the weapon.

Klaas did not shift. “No,” he replied flatly. “I think I am going to hold onto this for a while.”

Arthur jolted involuntarily. “S-so, you believe me, then?”

“You don’t seem all that happy about that fact,” Klaas observed.

“What… do you mean?” Arthur spluttered.

Klaas straightened. “If you had come here to convince me that the sword was not counterfeit, then you would have been pleased to see me buy your little tale about having stolen it from a samurai. But that doesn’t seem to be the case. Quite the opposite, in fact…” Arthur couldn’t be certain, but Klaas seemed to subtly adjust his grip on the sword in his hand. “Also, considering your suspicious behaviour and the events surrounding this sword’s discovery, I see that it may be reasonable to conclude that there is more to this case than meets the eye.”

Arthur shivered. He felt as though Klaas could see right through him - and who knew? Perhaps he could. He attempted to come up with some sort of witty comeback to regain his composure, but his mind was frozen.

“You see, we went to the press for one reason only,” Klaas continued. “We wanted to publicise our acquisition of a supposedly counterfeit sword in the hopes that someone would come forward to either confess or try to convince us that the sword was actually real. Either way, we hoped to understand the motive that had led to such a fine specimen ending up in a dumpster.” His tone dropped suddenly on the last word, sounding almost offended. “And it seems that you’ve given us some insight, Mr…”

“Kirkland,” Arthur muttered, overwhelmed.

“Mr. Kirkland,” Klaas began again. “I thank you for your cooperation. Now, just one last question. Does Honda know that you have stolen his sword?”

“No… I don’t think so…” Arthur replied slowly.

“And is it true that he will turn you into sashimi if he finds out?”

“Yes,” Arthur responded with conviction. “But…” he added with a desperate smile, “there’s no reason why he should find out, should he?”

“Well, if what you say is true, then it would be only polite, not to mention legally mandatory, to return this sword to its original owner, wouldn’t it?”

“B-but -” Arthur protested. “I-I told you, he’s a monster!”

“He’s a warrior, not a monster,” Klaas corrected. “I may be able to converse with him. So, if you don’t mind, Mr. Kirkland, I would like you to take me to this samurai.”

“Are you insane!?” Arthur exploded. He didn’t realise until he heard the chair legs scrape against the floor that he had sprung to his feet.

Klaas gave a quirk of his shoulders that appeared to indicate a shrug. “Call me what you will. I am merely curious -”

“But this goes beyond curiosity, doesn’t it?” Arthur protested. “Do you have a shred of rationality, man? Can’t you see that a samurai existing in the modern age would be impossible?”

In that moment, Klaas’s already stony gaze seemed to harden to diamond. “But you clearly don’t see it as impossible, do you, Mr. Kirkland?”

Arthur had hoped to at least figure out the secret to immortality before he died - and possibly develop a more reliable thrall spell. His current best attempt was little more effective than whispering suggestions in people’s ears.

But now he was going on a one-way trip to the Underworld via the same route as a bluefin tuna. He saw it clearly: his body cartoonishly sliced with trained precision into filleted pieces. That was his destiny.

Honda was going to kill him.

Honda was actually going to kill him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As far as the Hetalia Archives are aware, Netherlands has yet to be given a human name, so I decided to name him Klaas van Schwarzenberg. I feel he might be a little out of character here, but I wanted to have a deadpan historian who knew a lot about Japan and Netherlands seemed to fit the bill best out of any of the characters. I know he's meant to care about money more than anything else but most historians don't tend to go into it for the money, so I had to change that aspect of his character a little. Sorry about that.
> 
> Notes for confused Americans:  
> Tube - a colloquial term for the London Underground (this is something that I, along with most other Londoners, tend to assume everyone else knows but I'm putting it here just in case)
> 
> Japanese translations:  
> Yumi - a traditional Japanese bow. This is actually one of the oldest weapons used by samurai, and its use predates that of the katana.  
> Kusarigama - a dual-scythe weapon with a chain connecting the two handles. Probably the most cool-looking weapon known to man. If you're a fan of Soul Eater, this is the weapon that Tsubaki turns into. Alternatively, if you've watched Kubo and the Two Strings, one of the Sisters in that movie also uses this weapon.  
> Sengoku jidai/period - also called the "warring states" period, lasted from about 1460 - 1600 AD, and was basically a century of near-constant social upheaval and warfare. So yeah, fun times.  
> Tokugawa jidai/period - also called the Edo period, lasted from about 1600 - 1860 AD, and these actually were fun times, as Japan had been unified under a new shogun (military ruler) and there weren't any more internal wars for a while afterward.  
> Meiji jidai/period - lasted from about 1860 - 1900 AD, this was a period of "modernisation" and Westernisation and also some political upheaval, as the previous ruling class of samurai generally disagreed with what the government were doing at this time. After this period, samurai pretty much ceased to exist.

**Author's Note:**

> Regarding the hiatus note in the summary...  
> Okay, so, I've had the usual commitment issues I usually have with my stories, but this one is for a more specific reason.  
> It's not that I've lost interest in this story. It's actually the opposite. I've found that I care way too much about this premise to continue it the way it is now. I'd like to turn this into an original story. Basically nothing about the premise would change - the story would still involve a samurai from the Sengoku period ending up in a Londoner's back garden - but all the characters would be original, and so in that way it would cease to be a fanfiction. To be honest, I already think the characters are a bit OOC anyway and I'd much rather write this without having to feel limited in terms of character development and suchlike.  
> Of course, this might mean that this current story as it stands would get discontinued. But it's a "might" at the moment. If I can muster enough motivation to continue this story, then I will, although I do see it as unlikely right now.  
> Feel free to let me know how you feel about this development - if you'd like to see this rewritten as an original, or if you feel put out by it, or if you want me to write another AsaKiku fanfiction that I'm more likely to dedicate myself wholeheartedly to. I'd like to hear some opinions before I go ahead and decide to discontinue this in its entirety.  
> As always, thanks for all your amazing support and I'm sorry that this has turned out the way it has.  
> -Le Fez-Wearing Husky


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